


Canadia

by V (deepsix)



Category: Popslash
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, everyone is canadian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-05-21
Updated: 2002-05-21
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:51:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2037864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepsix/pseuds/V
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where they're all hosers, aka hoser!sync.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Canadia

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't edited or even looked at this since it was posted in 2002, and am only posting to ao3 because someone asked. I haven't indicated content warnings or tags because I don't remember what they are/know what would apply, so read at your own risk.

It wasn't so much odd that Lance came by later than usual, as it was odd who he came with. He was not, it seemed, at all Lance's type: he was scruffy and unshaven, wearing a black hooded sweatshirt, ragged about the wrists with holes ripped through for his thumbs, and green cargo pants with tattered hems. He was probably not, Chris decided, good for Lance's health.

"Who's this?" Chris asked immediately upon their arrival. 

"Huh?" Lance said, then, "oh, this is Josh." 

Joey smirked as he looked up from the TV, where the hockey game was being broadcasted on mute. "Oh, _Josh_ ," he said. "That one, right?" 

"Uh, yeah," Lance said, and collapsed on one of the couches. Josh held back a moment until he seemed completely sure that no one was going to kick him out, and then joined Lance. 

"The one you're always on about?" Justin asked, after a time. He probably hadn't even looked at Josh, so transfixed was he on the hockey game. 

"Hey, fuck off," Lance said. He, at least, had the decency to blush as he kicked Justin's shoulder. Justin looked up at him from the floor and scowled. 

"Does he play?" Chris asked. 

"Um. Not well," Lance said, and Justin laughed. 

"Can he talk?" he asked. 

"Yes, I can," Josh said suddenly, and Justin stopped mid-laugh. 

"He's a fuckin' Frenchie, eh!" Joey said. "Listen to his accent! Dude. You didn't tell us _that_." 

"Yeah, shut up," Lance said, and Josh studiously examined his hands. 

After some moments of silence, Joey unmuted the game. The hockey game filled in the white noise: Kaberle gets filled in by Stevens, a dirty hook, penalty against New Jersey. Joey slid off his chair and onto the floor by Justin, and vaguely noted that Lance and his Josh guy were in some hushed conversation on one end of the couch, rather than paying any attention to the game. 

"Hey, Chris," Justin said, when it cut to a commercial, "you coming over later?" 

"Uh huh," Chris said absently, over an Out of the Blue commercial. 

"Yeah?" Justin said. "Are you-?" 

"Dude, go buy us some beer," Joey interrupted, elbowing Justin sharply in the ribs. "I'm thirsty." 

"I _can't_ ," Justin said, and shot a glare at Joey that went unnoticed. 

Chris laughed. He stretched one leg out to kick Justin, but ended up unable to reach. "Fuckin' infant!" he said. 

"Shut up." And the game resumed. 

"Fuck. Justin! Why can't you be older, eh?" Joey said. "I want some god damn beer." 

"Make Lance do it," Justin said. "He can go with his Frenchie over there." 

Lance broke off sharply from his conversation with Josh, whatever it had been. "Fine," he muttered. "Any of you fuckers going to pay me back this time?" 

"Do we ever?" Chris said, and Toronto got scored on again. 

"Fuck you," Lance said. He got up, dragging Josh after him. "We'll be back in, like, half an hour." 

"Go to the one on Gerrard; it's faster," Chris said. 

"But it's further away!" Joey whined. "I want my fucking _beer_ , okay?" 

"But it's always empty," Chris said. He stopped, then opened his mouth again to announce a fist-fight between Tucker and some nobody, but they'd already left. 

"They don't like me," Josh said, when they got out to the street, and lit up a cigarette. 

"You didn't say anything," Lance said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "They're, um, rowdy. You have to be loud with 'em." 

"But I'm not -" Josh said, and suddenly his accent was stronger, so it came out more like "boot ay'm nut", and Lance smirked in the darkness. 

"I know," Lance said, putting a hand on Josh's wrist and leaning over to kiss his jaw. "It's just, I don't know, like. Don't let them get to you. They're actually kind of cool. Sometimes." 

"And, um, tell me again why you hang around with them? They don't even go to school." This was apparently something terribly important to Josh. 

"Justin does," Lance said. 

" _Secondary_ school," Josh said, and finished his cigarette. 

"Yeah, well," Lance said, then, "Don't light another one yet." 

"Uh huh," Josh said. "The one on Gerrard's the one with the big parking lot, yes?" 

"Yeah." Lance paused, and pulled Josh over to a car parked on the side of the street. "I think one of the lights burnt out a couple days back," he said, sliding his arms around Josh's waist, "and they always take forever replacing them." 

"Yeah?" Josh smirked, "good," and when he kissed Lance, he tasted like nicotine and mint and stale beer, but Lance didn't really mind. 

* * *

"Where the hell were you fuckers?" Joey asked, at the footsteps on the stairs. "You missed all the fuckin' second period and the beginning of the third. That's a fuckin' long time, eh." 

"Fuckin' Frenchie," Chris said. Josh pretended not to hear him. 

"Dude, he's wastin' Lance's beer-buying time," Justin said, and smiled disarmingly at Josh. 

"Not like you can drink it anyway," Chris said, at the same time as Lance said, 

"Dude, shut up. We got you your damn beer," and set a case of Blue on the floor near the couch. 

Justin presently popped a can out of the case. "This shit's really nasty, eh," he said, after gulping down part of the beer and handing the can to Chris. 

"Dude, I don't want this now," Chris said, and looked at the can with mild distaste. "You're nasty," and passed the beer to Joey, who drank it without comment. "Give another here." 

The basement lapsed again into silence, except for the dull buzz of the hockey game, and the snapping of beer cans as they opened, and the click of tin as they got haphazardly strewn about the floor. Lance and Josh were sprawled on the couch, but no one was really paying attention to them, and when Lance said, 

"Going on a smoke break," the game was pretty much over. 

"Uh huh," Joey said dully. His eyes had taken on a decidedly glazed look. 

"Lance doesn't smoke, does he," Justin said, once Josh and Lance's footsteps had receded, and he fumbled for another beer. 

"No," Chris said. 

And then, "Hey guys," said Jaime when she wandered down the stairs unannounced, but certainly expected. 

Joey grunted something and threw an empty can at her, and Chris said, "Hey, don't _fuck_ with the _girlfriend_ ," and Justin snorted. 

Jaime frowned. "Hey, is the game almost over?" she said, and sat down on the couch behind Chris. 

"Uh huh," Chris said, peeling himself off the floor. "Fine, let's go. Later," he said, and kissed Jaime loudly on the cheek. 

"See you at home, J," Jaime said. 

"Yeah," Justin said, then, "Chris. Remember about gettin' it on, eh?" 

"Kiss my ass," Chris said, and they wandered out. 

" _Fuckin'_ Jaime," Justin said, when he heard the front door close from the basement. 

"Yeah, fuckin' Jaime," Joey said, and looked at Justin strangely. "What now?" 

"I don't wanna go home," Justin said. He found it vaguely perplexing that there was so little beer left, when he reach into the case, but shrugged and pulled out another can. 

"So stay. Watch the Canucks get their asses kicked. Double-header, eh," Joey said. 

"'D rather watch Jaime get her fuckin' ass kicked." 

"Oh, spiteful," Joey said, just as Lance and Josh returned. "Hey." 

"Dude, your face is kinda- red?" Justin said, squinting at Lance, as he collapsed back on the couch. 

"Fuck off," Lance said, and rubbed at his chin, which was decidedly scratched to the point of redness. 

Justin smirked, squinted some more. "Really, what the hell is that? Josh being a bad influence on you?" 

Lance frowned. "Shut up, you're drunk." 

"And how!" Joey hooted, and that was, apparently, that. 

* * *

It was cold in the way it usually was at eight o'clock on an early November morning - crisp, clean, dry, but it was fine once one got used to it. The typically fresh air was permeated by the reek of cigarette smoke drifting from Josh, who was sitting on the kerb, knees drawn up to his chest, chain smoking. Jaime was lazily pressed into his side, leaning back on her hands. 

"Hey, um," Joey said, after Justin called out "car!" for the umpteenth time, and Lance dragged the net to the side of the street. "What's up with that Josh guy, anyway?" he asked. 

"What?" Lance asked, lifting an eyebrow in something of a threatening manner. 

"It's just. He doesn't." Joey paused, watching Justin take a slap-shot at Lance, who scowled. "He doesn't _do_ anything," he said, and the ball bounced off the crossbar. 

"Sure he does," Justin said, grinning, and circled the net. "He smokes and acts like he's too good to say anything to us." 

"He's not that bad," Chris said, and passed the ball to Justin. "He's just shy." 

"He's _boring_ , that's what he is," Joey said. 

"Hey, fuck off, will you?" Lance said, and Justin scored on him. 

"Fuckin' _sieve_ , man," Chris said, snickering. 

"Kiss my _ass_ ," Lance said. 

"Hey, guys?" Jaime said, from the kerb. "Josh can _hear_ you, eh?" 

"Kiss _my_ ass," Joey said, and checked Lance back into the net, just as Justin fished out the ball. 

"Ow, _fuck_ ," Lance cried, and shifted his shoulder blades. "Motherfucker! That _hurt_." 

Chris rolled his eyes, and skated to the kerb. "So, Josh," he said, settling down into a crouch on the pavement. He laid his stick across his thighs. "Why the hell do you hang out with us, if you don't even play, or hell, even talk to us?" 

Josh glanced up at him, stubbing out his cigarette on the kerb. He shrugged, fishing in his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. "I could not," he said quietly, and stuck another cigarette between his lips. 

Chris blinked at him, and pulled up his stick again. "No, that's okay," he said, and stole the ball out of Justin's stick. "Woo, break away!" he said, even though it wasn't, and scored on Lance. "Have I told you, lately, how much you _suck_?" 

"Fuck off," Lance said, and kicked out the ball. 

"Chris, hon," Jaime said, suddenly, and made to get up. "You done here?" 

"A hockey player's work is never done!" Joey said, and cross-checked Justin across the small of his back. 

"Ow!" Justin said, as Jaime muttered, 

"If it even starts." 

"Like you'd know," Joey said, and Justin hooked him around the knee. 

"Can we please just leave?" Jaime asked, and Chris glared. 

"Yeah, yeah," he said. 

No one said much of anything after that, and the calmness of a Sunday morning reigned, complete with the hiss of skates on asphalt, the clack of hockey sticks against pavement and plastic and bone, and the tang of smoke in the air. The sun would probably poke out from the clouds on the horizon any minute, because the sun never fully rose until mid-morning, in November. 

When they got back to Joey's house, Lance cornered Justin when he was taking off his skates. 

"Hey," Lance said, "what's up with you and your sister and Chris?" 

Justin glanced up from unlacing a skate. "What?" he asked, and tugged at a lace. "Why the hell d'you think it's any of your business?" 

"I, uh." Lance paused, backing away from Justin's crouched figure a little. "I was just wondering, is all. It's just. things have been sorta, y'know, strained with you lately." 

Justin snorted. "And like you get along with your sister all the damn time," he said. "Just back off, okay?" 

"Um, yeah. Whatever," Lance said, and looked sufficiently chastised as he went downstairs. 

* * *

So it was kind of annoying, after that, when they would sit around in Joey's basement or on the kerb outside Joey's house or in Tim Horton's while they waited for Josh to get off work, and Lance would just look at Justin like he _knew_ something he didn't really feel like sharing. Lance would smirk when Chris said things like, 

"Hey, Ju, you want me to come to your game on Tuesday?" and Justin nodded enthusiastically. 

Sometimes, Lance would go over to the counter where Josh was working, when he wasn't busy, and they'd have vague, smiling conversations that involved a few gestures in Justin's general direction and flickering smiles and sometimes a few furtive glances at Chris. 

And it was sort of stupid, like when Chris would hold Justin' stick and jersey him, and Lance would coo and say, "Oh, _Chris_ ," in falsetto until Joey checked him into the net, and then Chris would say, "Oh, _Joey_ ," just to see if it would get a rise out of Josh, but it never did. 

Eventually, Justin just said, "Hey, fuck. What?" after a spat in Tim Hortons, and Lance looked up steadily from his mangled coffee cup. 

"No, it's just. It's funny how, like, you're all fuckin' over him," he said, and continued to roll out the rim on his cup. "And nobody even notices." 

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Justin asked. 

"You and Chris, dumbass," Lance said, and Justin thought it was probably a bad idea to punch him in a donut shop, so he didn't. 

* * *

But it wasn't like Lance did it all the time. When Justin would curl into Chris' side, crashed on the floor after a particularly strenuous hockey practice, Lance wouldn't say anything. He didn't say anything when Justin rested his head on Chris' shoulder, and Chris would say, "Tired, eh? Don't you think maybe you should've gone home instead of coming over here?" Lance sort of smiled, then, and maybe Josh would tug on Lance's fingers a little and smile, too, but nobody really said anything about that, either. 

What was worse was when Jaime was there. It wasn't as if she did anything, really, she merely made Chris untouchable just by _being_ there. It was aggravating, then, because if Justin so much as looked at Chris the wrong way, Lance would nudge him and smirk, and that was usually a clue that he wasn't supposed to be doing something, in case maybe Jaime caught on. 

"And that would be bad," Lance confided in him, once, when Justin had gone to Tim Hortons between classes. 

"Yeah," Justin agreed. 

"Why the hell d'you want him, anyway?" Lance asked, and offered him a Timbit. "I mean, not like he's a bad guy or anything, but fuck, he's your sister's boyfriend, eh?" 

Justin shrugged, eyed the proffered Timbit, and took it. "It's a challenge," he said, and rolled the thing around in his palm. 

"Dude, _farm league_ is a challenge. This is stupid," Lance said. 

"No, farm league's a fucking pipe dream. Chris is a challenge," Justin said. 

"Whatever," Lance said. "Fuck, you gonna eat that?" 

"No," Justin said, and left the Timbit on the table, untouched. 

* * *

The thing about Josh wasn't so much that he was boring, but that he was quiet. After Lance introduced him to them, he was hanging around a lot, but he never really said anything. He said he didn't play because he didn't have any skates, because all his money was being concentrated towards his education and paying his rent. Chris asked him what he did back home, then, because it must have been pretty damn boring - Josh said he didn't do fuck all, and it was boring, and that's exactly why he moved. 

He wasn't around all the time, though. He worked at Tim Hortons and Joey was convinced he spat in their coffee - "because no one suspects the French guy" - but spent more time leaning on the counter, talking to Lance than he actually did serving customers. He went on smoke breaks when he wasn't supposed to, and when he took a legitimate break, he sat with them and spoke quietly to Lance and watched the rest of them through tired, blue eyes. 

He talked to Justin, sometimes, though only if Lance initiated the conversation, Chris noticed. The three of them would have quiet, hush-hush conversations, in which Justin rarely made eye contact with either of them, and tended to blush profusely. That was kind of cute, Chris thought, and that was definitely something he wasn't supposed to be thinking about his girlfriend's brother. 

Tonight, though, there was none of that. They'd gone over to Tim Hortons on the premise that they "could hit on French boy's hot coworkers" - a suggestion from Joey. Josh had quietly pointed out that there tended not to be many good-looking people working there at "one in the morning, you stupid fuck," and was coherent only because he hadn't partaken in much of the consumption of a two-four, which he'd been forced to buy. 

Joey had told Justin he had to drink a can every time a penalty was called, about halfway through the second period of the second game, because he knew Justin couldn't hold his alcohol, because he was still just a kid. Joey had laughed after Justin started yelling, "fuck you, fuckin' Tucker," and, "can't you keep your god damn stick _down_?" at the TV, but Chris hadn't found it all that amusing - or, all that much of a good idea at all - to let Justin have as much beer as he had. 

It wasn't as if he and Joey and Lance hadn't downed their own fair share of the case, of course, which was probably why it looked like such a good idea to stake out Tim Hortons. Because it wasn't, really. 

"Why the hell's it so _bright_ in here," Justin asked, when they got there. 

"It's not," Chris said, and guided him towards a table. "It's fuckin' Joey's fault." 

"Oh," Justin said, and glared, but his eyes couldn't focus enough on anything for it to be effective. Joey giggled obscenely. 

After a while, Chris said, "What the hell are we doing here?" 

"Dude, we are _rocking_ the _house_ ," Joey said. 

"I don't know 'bout you, but I'm sittin' 'ere watching you make asses out of yourselves," Josh said, and went to get coffee. 

"Hey, isn't that what you always do?" Justin called after him, resting his head on Chris' shoulder. Chris shrugged slightly, but Justin didn't move. 

"Fuck," Chris said. "You guys suck." Lance appeared to be falling asleep on the table. 

"Mm," Justin said, and lifted his head slightly. "Hey, y'know what?" 

"Um," Chris said, and glanced at Joey, and then suddenly Justin's face was entirely too close to his. 

Justin leaned over, breath tickling Chris' ear, and he positively reeked of Blue. "I like you, eh," he said, like it was some kind of amazing secret. 

"Yeah?" Chris said, glancing over at Joey again. "We're friends. You're supposed to." 

"No," Justin said. He slipped an arm around Chris' shoulders, fingers brushing the back of his neck, and Chris flinched. "I mean, I _like_ -like you." 

Chris turned away from Justin, but could still feel Justin's breath hot on his neck. "Oh," he said, because there was really nothing else to say. 

"Yeah," Justin said, voice soft and strangely syrupy. "I want you to _fuck_ me so hard I wouldn't even be able to skate in the morning." 

"Justin, stop," Chris said, and pushed him away. "You're drunk," but he wasn't as put off by the idea of fucking Justin as he probably should have been. "Shut up." 

Josh returned, then, and put four cups of coffee on the table. He nudged Lance, who didn't respond, and glanced around the table. "So, um. Coffee," he said. 

"Yeah," Chris said, and took a cup. "This is gonna hurt like a bitch tomorrow morning." 

"Yeah," Joey mumbled, and eyed the coffee blearily. "That's nasty." 

"Y m'a rej'té," Justin said, then, only barely coherent through the alcohol and the accent. 

Josh glanced up from his coffee cup, tired gaze flickering from Justin to Chris, and back. "J'regrette," he said softly, and shrugged. 

It took Chris a bit longer to figure out what Justin said. And then - what the fuck? 

* * *

Justin didn't come around between classes or after school or any time at all, the next day. Chris was maybe a little relieved, so Justin wasn't there to say, "look what _you_ turned down," because even though he would never even conceive leaving Jaime in exchange for Justin, it just made him wonder, _what if_. And that was wrong, really. 

Which made it a little worse, when he went over to pick up Jaime, and had to wait for her - as usual - in the living room with Justin, while he watched sports news on City TV. 

"Hey," Justin had said, when he came in. He was sprawled the length of the couch, in low-slung sweatpants and a twisted blue Roots t-shirt, and that was kind of hot, really. 

"Hey," Chris said, but couldn't bring himself to move away from the couch. 

"You remember anything from last night?" Justin asked, and smothered a yawn. 

"Shut up," Chris said. 

"I do, though," Justin said, and sat up on the couch, peering up at Chris through his eyelashes. Fuck. 

"Yeah?" Chris said. "Shut _up_." 

Justin shrugged, and climbed off the couch. "No, really," he said, perched on the arm, and curled his fingers around Chris' wrist. "You wouldn't wanna be with me? I'd let you fuck me. It'd be hotter and better than with my sister and I'd make you come so hard you wouldn't remember how to brea-" 

"Fuck, Justin," Chris said, and pulled away from him. "Back the hell _off_ , man. What part of 'shut up' don't you get?" 

Justin shrugged, and slid around Chris, off the couch. "Hey, whatever," he said, and walked out of the living room. 

City TV was still on about sports, but suddenly Chris didn't think the play of the week had anything to do with hockey. 

* * *

When he'd come back, later, with Jaime, Justin had slid into the hall and said, "Hey, can't I even talk to you?" 

Jaime shrugged, said, "I'll be downstairs," and went. Chris frowned. 

"Yeah, okay, whatever," he said. 

"Just...come with, eh," Justin said, and went upstairs, Chris on his heels. "Hey, um," he said, when he got to his room. "I'm sorry," and he sounded apologetic. He sort of smiled, and then kicked the door closed behind Chris. "But it'd be really good," he said, and pushed Chris back against the door, and that was sort of how the first kiss happened. Justin wasn't sweet about it like Jaime, and his lips were chapped, and when Chris opened his mouth against Justin's, he tasted like coffee and something heady, and Chris didn't really know anything more beyond Justin's mouth, except, 

"Dude, don't," Chris said, when he found the doorknob behind him, and stepped out of the kiss, out of the room. "It's not _like_ that." 

"Oh," Justin said softly. 

"You _can't_ ," Chris said. 

Justin looked at the floor, then at Chris, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Why not?" he asked, after a moment. 

Chris cocked his head at Justin. "Um, Jaime?" he said. 

"Fuck," Justin said fervently. " _Fine_. Whatever. Fuck you," and slammed the door shut. 

Chris didn't really feel like reading anything more into that than he had to. 

* * *

"No," Chris said, because there was nothing else he could have said that would convey how much he didn't want to go. 

"What?" Joey asked, leaping up from the couch. "Justin's _game_ , man. Get your ass up. It's important." 

"It's a _game_ ," Chris said. He swung his legs up to occupy the space Joey had just vacated, in case he still hadn't got the picture. "It's not that important." 

"No, man," Joey said, "it's _the_ game. The fuck it's not important." 

"Fuck you." 

"Don't be an ass," Joey said, and cocked his head towards the stairs. "There're gonna be scouts and shit there. It's _big_. And it's _Justin_. So let's go." 

"I don't care," Chris said. He let out an annoyed breath. "Just's been pissing me off lately, anyway. Who cares." 

"Hey, what?" Joey said, eyes clouding a little. Not a lot. "He didn't even _do_ anything, eh. This is just you being an asshole." 

"Whatever. I'm not going." 

"Yeah, man, you are." Joey leaned over the back of the couch. "Look," he said, loudly, pointedly in Chris' ear, "I don't know what the fuck your problem is, but he's your best friend, eh, and this is _big_ \- like, _huge_ \- and I _think_ he'd care if you didn't show." 

"He wouldn't," Chris said. 

"He would," Joey said sharply. He straightened, "So get your fucking shit, before I tip you off the couch and drag your punk ass to the car." 

"You wouldn't," Chris said. 

"I _would_ ," Joey said, laying a hand on Chris' bicep, "so _get_ the fuck _up_ , and let's _go_." 

"Hey -" 

"Move your ass," Joey said, rocked the couch experimentally with his knee. "Or I _will_ tip you." 

"You're an asshole," Chris said, but got up anyway. 

* * *

"I hope you know I'm cheering for the other team," Chris said, in the car. 

"I hope you know I don't care," Joey said. 

* * *

"Do you think whatsisname's gonna come?" Chris asked, after the first period. 

"Who?" Joey asked. "Y'think they've got a beer stand around here somewhere?" 

Chris rolled his eyes. "This is a peewee game, you fuck. And Josh." 

"What?" Joey said. 

"Never mind. I'm going to the bathroom." 

"Lance said he had to work," Joey called after him. 

* * *

"They're doing pretty shitty, eh," Joey said, in the middle of the second period. "They're losing." 

"No they aren't," Chris said. 

" _Justin's_ team," Joey said. 

"Yeah, well." 

"You don't need to be an ass about it," Joey said. 

"Fuck you," Chris said. 

Joey leaned over the arm of the seat, and nudged Chris in the ribs. "No, but hey," he said. "The captain? Whatsisname?" He squinted down at the ice. "Ro-- whatever. How many penalties has he got now?" 

"A lot," Chris said. 

"Yeah, yeah," Joey said, glancing from Chris to the ice and back. "It's terrible, isn't it." 

"No," Chris said. Paused. "I -" 

"Justin isn't getting much play, eh," Joey said. 

"Wh -" 

"Time," Joey said. 

"Oh," Chris said, and Joey smiled. 

* * *

"Okay, look, fuck," Justin said, on the bench, cradling his helmet between his knees. "Wade's got a fucking penalty every time you put him out there." 

"Yeah?" Sinclair asked, pulling the pencil out of his mouth. He frowned, peered down at Justin. "You aren't doing so hot yourself." 

"Maybe if you put me out there more than once a period," Justin said. 

"That's enough, for you," Sinclair said shortly. 

Justin frowned, and glared into his helmet. "Look, there are scouts. Can I just -" 

"Next shift," Sinclair said, like he hadn't been saying it all evening and proceeding not to do it. 

* * *

"They actually _lost_?" Chris asked. 

"Not yet," Joey said, peering down at the ice, just as the buzzer sounded. "Okay, _now_ they did." 

"Well, fuck," Chris said. 

"Oh, Chris," Joey said sweetly, "I didn't know you cared." 

"Fuck," Chris repeated, and elbowed Joey sharply in the arm. "I do now." 

"Oh, Justin'll be _crushed_ ," Joey said. He batted his eyelashes at Chris. 

"Fuck off," Chris said, and stood up. "Gonna go find him." 

"They aren't going to be out yet, eh," Joey said. Chris shrugged. 

* * *

"Sir, can you just wa-- sir!" Justin said, loudly, ambling awkwardly down the hallway after Sinclair, still in full uniform. 

"Justin, _what_?" Sinclair asked, turning around abruptly. "I've got a meeting -" 

"It's only going to take a minute," Justin said. "Look, I -" 

"Justin," Sinclair said, exasperated, "there are scouts here. From St. John's, okay. We've got a meeting." 

Justin scowled. "I know," he said, and dropped his helmet beside him. "I was wondering about that - you know - um. If they were coming back - I mean, I didn't really, not, um. I didn't get a - a chance. On the ice. And it was all Wade, eh." 

"I don't have time for this," Sinclair said. He tapped his clipboard with his pencil, as if it explained his rush. "How about at next practice." 

"No," Justin said, kicking at the rubber flooring with the toe of his skate. "How 'bout now. Wade got all this fuckin' ice time, and he kept getting penalties, and that's not g--" 

"Justin," Sinclair repeated, more harshly this time. "Wade's the captain. He's supposed to be out a lot. It was _strategy_." 

"Fuck that. I'm one of the alternates - don't you think I should've been out there some more?" 

"No," Sinclair said, and turned back down the hallway again. "Go get changed, Timberlake." 

"Go kiss my ass, Sinclair," Justin muttered, and tugged his jersey off over his head. 

* * *

"A fucking _minute_ ," Justin called, when the banging on the dressing room door started. He pulled on his sweatpants, wandered across the empty room, swung open the door. "You forg-?" He stopped mid-sentence, and blinked a few times before it registered that it was Chris on the other side. "Oh. Hi," he said, and forced the smile from his face. He shuffled back towards his equipment, and tossed shoulder pads, shin guards, what-have-you in his hockey bag. 

"Hey," Chris said, after a moment. 

"Yeah, hi," Justin said, strained. Like he could pretend Chris hadn't been acting like talking to him was a big fucking favour for the past week. 

Chris paused, watched Justin lace up his Kodiaks. "Fuck, man," he said. " _Fuck_. What was that all about? Your coach - the fuck was he thinking, eh?" 

Justin glanced up at him. He looked at Chris darkly from under his eyelashes, and straightened. "You think you have to tell me? I don't fuckin' know. I talked to him, after, and he told me they didn't _need_ me, they just needed fucking _Wade_." 

"He's a fucking prick, eh," Chris said. 

"I _know_ ," Justin replied emphatically. He slumped back against the wall, closed his eyes, and scrubbed his fingers through his short hair. 

"That Wade guy," Chris said, and Justin couldn't see him, "He's the captain, right?" Justin nodded almost imperceptibly. "He kept getting all those fucking stupid penalties. I mean, fuck, goalie interference? Is he an idiot?" 

"I - yes - fuck," and when Justin opened his eyes, Chris was right there. Not on the other side of the room, like before, but standing right in front of him, watching intently. Justin let his hand drop to his side, and that was when Chris seized his forearm. 

And Chris leaned forward, and pressed his lips to Justin's. 

Justin pushed him away. 

"Don't, Chris," he said, but it wasn't very convincing, and when Chris kissed him again, he sighed into Chris' open mouth. It sounded a lot like "please." 

"Stupid fucks," Chris mumbled against his mouth. 

"What're you --" Justin said, and didn't get any further. 

Chris glided his hand down the front of Justin's pants, rough fingers brushing over hard abs, thighs, curling around Justin's cock. Justin breathed in sharply and pulled his mouth away from Chris', content just to roll his head back against the wall. His breathing was unsteady and hitched as Chris stroked along the shaft of his cock, and fuck he was hard. 

"Stupid fuck," Chris said lowly, touching his nose to Justin's, so Justin could feel Chris' breath in his mouth when he spoke. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Justin was pretty sure Chris was talking about him. 

Justin bucked his hips involuntarily, though, when Chris' fingers skated across the tip of his cock. When Chris thrust his tongue into Justin's mouth, giving his cock a final, rough pump, Justin closed his eyes and came. 

And Justin shouldn't have been ashamed when Chris drew away and went to wash his hands, and said, "Get your shit. Joey's waiting in the car." 

But he was. 

* * *

It was quiet and cold and actually pretty dark, because the street lights hadn't come on. It was maybe a little too quiet, even for a random night in November, the stillness punctured only by the sound of the wind rustling through dead, suburban trees, and the occasional clack of a hockey stick on pavement. 

It hadn't even snowed yet. 

"When're the fucking lights going to come on?" Justin asked, sitting unseen in the middle of the deserted street, straddling his hockey stick. 

"I dunno that you'd want 'em to," Joey said, somewhere on the kerb. "You might get a load of tongue that'll scar you for life." 

"Fuck you," Chris mumbled, vaguely off to Justin's side. Maybe on the kerb, maybe not. 

"Thanks for the warning," Justin said, and smirked without amusement. 

"Shut up, J," Jaime said. This, proceeded by another noticeable burst of silence, and, "Fuck, shit, Chris. I've got to get to work early tomorrow." 

"Yeah?" Chris said drowsily. 

Justin couldn't stare hard enough at the patch of black asphalt between his thighs. 

"Mm," Jaime said, more silence, and the rustling of parkas. And the street lights flickered to life just in time for Justin to catch Jaime's mouth pulling away from Chris'. "See y'later," she said. 

Justin shouldn't have glared at her retreating back, because it wasn't her fault, she didn't know it had been his mouth pulling away from Chris' only last night. Wasn't her fault, but it was Justin's. 

"Gonna go bring up another two-four," Chris said brightly, then, and Justin shouldn't have snorted indignantly. But it wasn't like Chris didn't know how Justin was when drunk, because he did, and Justin hoped maybe that was the point. 

There were a lot of things Justin shouldn't have been doing. 

* * *

The thing about Joey's couch was that it wasn't really made for making out. It was old and pulled out and made creaking noises when you moved, and was really not built for stealth, which was really what was needed when making out with someone you shouldn't be. Or, not so much "shouldn't be", as it was "just not right then." 

The other thing about it was that it was ratty and plush, but somewhat threadbare, so it scratched at the exposed skin of Josh's back, when Lance pressed him into the cushions, tugged at the back of his shirt. And it was really uncomfortable, even though it sunk in just right and moulded properly to Josh's back. There were coils just below the cushions, and Lance's shin scraped across one in the crack between the cushions as he threaded his leg between Josh's thighs. 

And still, it made pretty distinctive noises, so that even if Chris hadn't been able to recognise the sounds of laboured breathing and the meeting of tongues and a sporadic moan or two, the creaking of the couch could have easily given it away. 

"Whoa!" Chris said, pausing at the bottom of the stairs. "Sorry, man, I didn't know you -" 

"Chris?" Lance said, tearing himself away from Josh. Covering his mouth with the back of his hand. 

"I - shit, man!" Chris exclaimed, and bolted back up the stairs. He paused at the top, this time. "Wait a fucking _min_ ute." 

"Merde," Josh muttered. 

"Chris?" Lance repeated, and thought maybe this would be a good time to pull his knee out from between Josh's legs. He didn't, though. "Chris, uh, c'n you come here?" 

"You better not have your tongues down each other's throats when I come down, man," Chris said, and descended the stairs hesitantly. 

"Mec," Josh said, skirting out from under Lance a little, "can you. uh." 

"Nottellanybody?" Lance said, hurriedly. 

Chris frowned. "I, er." 

"Please?" Lance asked. 

"Fuck," Chris said, "just wanted a fucking Blue, man. Are you, um." He made his way cautiously over to the fridge, giving the couch as wide a berth as possible. "Um. Together?" 

"No," Lance said, at the same time Josh said, "Yeah." 

"I mean," Lance said, glancing at Josh. Lance exhaled sharply, and climbed off him. "I mean, fuck, yeah, yeah." 

"Okay," Chris said, head buried in the fridge. "So, um." 

"Don't _tell_ them," Lance said. 

"Right, right," Chris said, pulled a case of beer out of the fridge. "You want any?" 

"What?" Josh asked. 

"A beer, man," Chris said, gestured vaguely with the case. 

"Yeah," Josh said, "throw me one." 

"Josh -" Lance said, as Josh pulled a can out of the box. 

Josh didn't say anything, just rearranged his shirt, and settled on the other side of the couch from Lance. 

"Josh," Lance repeated. 

"Shut up," Josh said. 

Chris bit his lip. Maybe laughed, quietly. "Dude, I'm _sorry_ ," he said, and made a beeline for the stairs. 

"Josh," Lance said. 

"Shut _up_ ," Josh said, watched Chris' retreating form. When he disappeared, Josh smirked, leaned over, and bit Lance's bottom lip. 

Lance mumbled something, but didn't get very far. 

"Shut up," Josh said, slipped the cold can of beer up the back of Lance's shirt. Lance gasped a little, arching his back into Josh, who covered Lance's mouth with his own to make sure he did as he was asked. 

"I can fucking hear you, dude," Chris said, from somewhere upstairs, and Josh opened his eyes just as he heard the front door slam. 

The other thing about Joey's couch was that the arms were curved, instead of perpendicular to the seat, and Lance's back always managed to arch along an arm just enough that it gave Josh better access to him. They were rather well acquainted with the couch. 

* * *

Justin thought maybe he got a little too easy after a beer or three, and he thought maybe that was why Chris gave it to him. 

Though after a round of hockey and far too much beer - notenoughnotenoughnotenough, for Chris - Justin thought maybe that was just his imagination. 

When Joey said, "leave your shit here, just go the fuck home," Justin thought maybe Chris really had no ulterior motives, because even though Chris had looked at him and touched him and smiled a little, it wasn't like that. 

Though when Chris said, "I'll walk your punk ass home, kid," Justin thought maybe he was wrong. 

And when Chris pushed him against the door jamb, slipping his knee between Justin's legs, curling his fingers around the base of his skull, and kissing him wetly, tasting like Blue, of fucking course, Justin knew he was wrong. About a lot of things. 

* * *

And it was really wrong to like it, to like Chris pushing him up against the wall behind the hockey rink, kissing him quickly, maybe; to like sitting in the back of a deserted Tim Horton's, leaning across the table, kissing Chris until his tongue felt like sandpaper; to like watching Chris and Jaime, and thinking that even if it meant something to Chris, it meant less than it had. 

Wrong, because Chris was his best friend, and because Jaime was his fucking sister. 

Wrong, for Chris, because Justin was only seventeen and hadn't even finished high school, and his girlfriend's brother. And even though he sort of had the same eyes as Jaime, they were bigger and more inquisitive and _young_ , and even if he had the same lips, they were always chapped and not really that soft, and when Chris lifted his fingers to Justin's cheek, there was always stubble, because he was too lazy to shave regularly. 

But Justin was also kind of pretty, not like Jaime, and he was determined, and Chris' best friend, and he knew what Chris was talking about when he said someone got a ten-minute major misconduct for roughing, and he really sort of could handle his alcohol, even if he thought Molson Export was really nasty, and he didn't look half bad with blood dripping from a split lip, and he didn't think curling was an old person sport, and he had fucking strong legs, and wasn't really afraid to wrap them around Chris' waist, ever. 

Which was also pretty wrong, but Chris was sort of beyond caring. 

* * *

Justin leaned over and kissed Chris, and even though it was quick and clean, Chris knew it was a bad idea. 

"Hey, what -" he said, when Justin's mouth brushed his upper lip. 

"What?" Justin asked, and did it again, though this kiss was firmer and damper. He pushed Chris down on the edge of the bed, and pressed his lips to the corner of Chris' mouth. "Please?" 

"But Jaime - she's downstairs -" 

Justin's tongue darted out, and he licked tentatively at the edge of Chris' lips. "So?" he asked, as Chris slid back on the bed. He straddled Chris' hips, lifted an eyebrow, and repeated, "please?" in Chris' ear. 

"Oh, fuck," Chris said, and slid an arm around Justin's waist. Justin laid a hand on his forearm, and kissed him again, a real kiss, this time, in a soft sort of breathless way. There was a slick glide on tongue on tongue as Justin's other hand went to Chris' shoulder, and he momentarily shifted in Chris' lap. 

"See?" Justin said, when he broke away, and it was half teasing, half asking for more. 

"Yeah, fuck you," Chris said. His mouth met Justin's again, and this wasn't anything like when Justin kissed him. It was dirty and needy and there was scraping of teeth against lips and the press of tongue invading Justin's mouth. Chris moved beneath him, and suddenly Justin was on his back, under Chris, and Chris' hand was up the back of his shirt, callused fingers stroking his spine. 

Justin's back arched as Chris pressed him into the mattress, and Chris reflexively put a hand between Justin's thighs, spreading his legs. Justin slid a hand into Chris' pants, fingers hot on Chris' hip and on his cock, and suddenly it occurred to Chris, again, that - shit, Justin was underage. 

"Fuck," Chris said, pulling away when Justin hooked a leg around his waist. "You're just a kid," though it didn't seem to stop Justin from thrusting his hips upward, erection pressing into Chris' abdomen, and from clinging to Chris' neck. 

"Like hell," Justin said, and pulled Chris back down between his legs. "You didn't care before," he mumbled, and threaded his fingers through Chris' dreadlocked hair, mouth finding mouth again. His other hand was rubbing against Chris' erection - was that bad? - and fuck, Justin was hot, but fuck, he was just a kid - and that definitely was bad - and _fuck_ , his girlfriend was somewhere in the house, and what was even worse was that he didn't care. That didn't really matter, though, because it had nothing to do with the slide of Justin's tongue against his, or the pressure of Justin's legs wrapped around his hips, or the feel of Justin's slightly dry skin beneath his fingers. 

Justin's shirt was pushed up around his armpits and he was still curled around Chris and his hand was still fumbling around down Chris' pants when Jaime knocked on the door. 

"Hey, Justin, you gotta get your ass out here or you're gonna be late for hockey." 

Justin froze. Slowly, Chris drew his lips away from Justin, and stared down at Justin's wide-eyed face. "Fuck," Justin breathed, and Chris could hear his blood pounding through his ears. "Just a minute," Justin said, raising his voice for Jaime. 

"Hurry up," she said through the door, "you have to be there in, like, twenty minutes." 

Chris didn't bother to let Justin respond, just trailed wet kisses along Justin's jaw and whispered, "Fuck, that's hot." 

"Uh huh," Justin said, voice breathy, and turned to lick at Chris' lips. "Just a minute," he repeated, but this time it was for Chris. Chris was vaguely aware of Justin's hands sliding up the back of his shirt, gripping loosely at his shoulders as Justin kissed him again, and it was heady and dirty and dizzying, and now Justin was so tightly wrapped around him, he - 

"Justin, you're going to be -- what the _fuck_?" 

And that sort of ruined it, with Jaime glancing in, stopping, letting the door drift open, while Justin broke half-heartedly away from Chris, and peered up over his shoulder. 

"Shit," he mumbled, scrambling out from under Chris, straightening his shirt. Chris had been startled over to the other end of the bed, and sat on the edge, palm covering his face. 

"Yeah, _shit_ ," Jaime said, and she was still staring at them. 

"Jaime, I -" Chris said. 

"Shut the _fuck_ up," Jaime said, harshly. 

"But I -" Chris said. 

"What the _fuck_?!" she cried. "You're making out with my fucking _brother_? My brother!" 

"Can I just -" 

"I don't fucking want to hear it." 

"Jai?" Justin asked, quietly, chewing on his lips. "Can -" 

"Go get the fuck in the car," Jaime said, and Justin slipped off the bed, snatching his shoes off the floor. He cast a glance back at Chris as he brushed out of the room, but Chris wasn't looking at him, and Jaime was. "Hurry the fuck up," she said. 

"A'right, right," he mumbled. 

"Chris," she said, teeth clenched, "you fucking better be here when I get back." 

He grunted affirmatively, but really had no intention of staying. 

* * *

When Joey opened the door, he was rubbing his eyes and yawning and had probably just woken up. His eyes were a little bleary, and Chris would have felt guilty if he wasn't so worried. 

"Joeyjoeyjoey, fuck, can I come in?" he asked. 

"Wha?" Joey blinked at him. "I, uh, yeah. um. You just woke me up, eh." 

"It's, like, seven o'clock at night, moron," Chris said, and brushed past him into the house. "I really need your advice." 

" _My_ advice?" Joey asked, following Chris down to the basement. 

"Yeah," Chris said. "'Cause, um." He paused, eyed the couch, thought better of it, and sat on the floor, leaning his head back against the seat. "Jaimejustsortofcaughtmecheating." 

"Wha?" Joey repeated, and collapsed into one of the chairs. 

"Jaime," he said. "Caughtmecheating." 

"Cheating?" Joey asked. 

"Yes," Chris said. 

" _Cheating_?" Joey repeated. "You _cheated_ on _Jaime_?" 

"Yes," Chris said. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you, man?" Joey asked. He rubbed at his eyes a little more. "Why'd you do it?" 

"It was a mistake," Chris said, even though it wasn't, really, not at the time. 

"How'd she find out?" 

"She, um. Shewalkedinonus." 

"She, what?" Joey blinked. "Oh. Right." Paused. "Where the fuck were you that she could walk in on you?" 

"Um," Chris said. "Somewhere." 

"Well, um, what'd she do?" 

"Um. Yelled a bit. Like, girl shit that they do." 

"Who was it?" 

"Look, shut up, Joe. I just want to know what to _do_." 

"Well, like, it'd make a difference who it is you were with. 'Cause, like. You know," Joey said. 

"It doesn't fucking matter," Chris said. 

"It does," Joey said. 

"Fuck. God. He was nobody." 

"Wait, _what_?" Joey asked, eyes widening a little. They were definitely bloodshot. "Whoa, man. _Whoa_. You were doin' it with a _guy_ and she walked _in_ on you?" 

"We weren't _doin'_ it," Chris said. 

"You - what? Weren't doin' it?" Joey asked. "Then who the hell cares? 'S not cheating unless you're doin' it." 

"It _is_ ," Chris said. 

"It's not! I mean, like, it doesn't count if you're kissing and stuff." Joey grinned. "Like the time with that exchange chick in first year?" 

"You only went to one year," Chris said. 

"Yeah, yeah. But, like, at that party, we were makin' out and it wasn't like I was _cheating_ on Kel or anything, 'cause, like, we weren't _doin'_ it." 

"You were still makin' out with her, fuckwit," Chris said. 

"Okay, fine, whatever. It's not cheating." 

"It _is_ ," Chris said. 

Joey yawned, then, and turned sideways in the chair, throwing his legs over the arm. "Wait, hold up, man. Who the fuck was it, then?" 

"I already said it doesn't matter." 

"I already said it _does_ , eh." 

"It doesn't." 

"Dude, why won't you tell me?" 

"Because it's none of your fucking business." 

Joey rolled his eyes. "So it's my business to know you've been makin' it with guys, but not who it's been with." 

"Yeah," Chris said. 

"Dude, just _tell_ me." 

"No." Chris sighed, rolled his head back on the seat of the couch. "It's just 'cause, like, it freaked me the fuck out." 

"Um," Joey said. "Okay." 

Chris thought maybe he was blushing under the look Joey was giving him. 

"Whoa! Wait! I know him, don't I?" Joey asked. 

"No, really," Chris said. 

"Aw, man. You're a sick fuck, you know that?" 

"Fuck you," Chris said. 

"It's Lance, isn't it." 

"Fuck no." 

"His frog boy, then." 

"Like hell." Chris paused. "They're doin' each other, anyway." 

"They are?" Joey asked, leaned forward. "Wait, shut up. Stop trying to change the subject. That skinny guy from up the street." 

"No." 

"Oh! That guy on Justin's team. The one?" 

"No." 

"The one that works at the beer store." 

"Ew, fuck no." 

"Just asking, eh. Um. The guy at Timbo's?" 

"That's Josh, moron." 

"Oh, right." Joey rubbed at his eyes again. "Fuck. Wait. Dude. No." 

"What?" Chris asked. 

"You wouldn't." Joey stared at him. "It's fucking Justin, isn't it." 

"It's not," Chris said, but he was pretty fucking sure he was blushing hard enough to give it away. 

"You sick fuck!" Joey said, grinned. 

"Shut up." 

"Dude, wait. Is he even legal?" 

"Shut _up_." 

"Dude. I can't believe you'd cheat on your fucking girlfriend with her _brother_." 

"Joey. Shut up." 

"Man, that's really fucked up." 

"Shut the fuck up." Chris glared up at him, then sighed. "Dude, like, ex _act_ ly." 

"So stop doing it," Joey said. 

"It's not that easy." 

"Yeah, it is," Joey said. 

"Fuck _you_." 

"Er," Joey said, and shifted in the chair again. "Um. So. She knows?" 

"Obviously. Unless, like, I could just, like, accidentally _fall_ on him like that." 

"What'd she do?" 

"Dragged him off to hockey. And, um. Yelled a little." 

"Yeah, well. What'd you want her to do?" 

"You're not fucking _helping_ , Joe." 

"What am I supposed to say, eh? Like, it's normal, it's cool, please continue at your will." 

"You could tell me what to _do_ ," Chris said. 

"Well, you could stop fucking Justin, for one." 

"We weren't _doing_ it!" 

"So you keep saying, and I don't fucking get it. If you're not fucking him, there's no problem." 

"Dude, you're impossible. Can I not just get _good_ advice out of you?" 

"Yeah, well. You've got some fucked up problems, man. Is there any _real_ good advice for that?" Joey snorted. "Normal people don't fuck their girlfriends' brothers." 

"First, I wasn't _fucking_ him, and _second_ , like you should talk. And it's not like I _meant_ to." 

"What, so, like, he put the moves on you and you're that easy?" 

"Shut up." 

"You fucking sick fuck," Joey repeated. "And good fucking _god_ , I did not need that image." 

"Shut the fuck up. Never mind." Chris stood up. "I'm going to find Lance." 

"Mmhmm," Joey said, and Chris had barely made it up the stairs before he started laughing. 

"Dude," Chris said, "what the fuck is wrong with the acoustics in your house?" 

* * *

"I didn't mean to," Justin said, somewhere along Lawrence Ave. 

Jaime glanced at him sideways, eyes narrowed. She said nothing. 

"I. You don't need to get all angry about it," he said, quietly. 

She bit her lip, tapped irritably on the steering wheel. "You're fooling around with my boyfriend." 

Justin looked at his hands. "But you kinda overreacted a little." 

"You're fooling around with my boyfriend," she repeated. "I think I'm allowed to freak out a little." 

"I -- but, um. It's not. I mean." Justin pushed useless at his cuticles. "He still likes you best, though." 

Jaime cocked an eyebrow at him. "So why was he makin' out with you when I was in the same fucking house?" 

"I don't know." Pause. "I, um. Asked," he mumbled. "I mean, 'cause, um. I asked him to. And 'cause, um. I did. He was. So we did." 

"What?" Jaime asked sharply. 

"I'm, like. He needs. to. ah. Have something different. Maybe, for a bit. Like. It's not, like, you know. Because." Justin sucked in a breath; found the dashboard immensely entertaining. "He still loves you and all. It's not like. I mean. Like he wants things to, y'know. Change. Between you. And, you know." 

"No," Jaime said. 

"I don't either. Like, well. It's just. It doesn't mean anything. Because it's just, like. different. Not serious. It's, um. well. He wouldn't've done it if I, like, hadn't asked." 

"What the hell are you talking about?" Jaime asked. 

"It's, um. I don't know. It's just. He loves you. I don't know what he's doing with me." He swallowed, maybe a little thickly. "So don't ask. 'Cause, um. I don't understand it either." 

"I," Jaime started, and pulled into the arena parking lot. "Just shut up, Justin." 

He shrugged, climbed out of the car. "Later," he said, and stood in the parking lot, hockey bag at his feet, until he was late. He didn't really care. 

* * *

Lance wasn't too hard to find; he was never far from Josh, which was sort of lame and boring and made Chris think maybe Lance couldn't think for himself, but it was really quite helpful when he wanted to find Lance, rare as that may have been, especially when Josh was working. 

"Hey," Chris said, leaning across the counter, nudging Lance in the ribs. "Can I, um." 

"Yeah?" Josh said, adjusting his Tim Horton's visor. 

"Krueller," Chris said, nudged Lance again. "Vanilla. C'n I talk to you?" 

"Obviously," Lance said. 

"I mean," Chris said, " _talk_ talk." 

"Oh, I see," Lance said; he was waggling his eyebrows at Josh and probably not seeing at all. "You want to _talk_." 

"Yeah," Chris said. He grabbed the donut bag from Josh, and dumped a handful of change on the counter. "I --" 

"Chris?" Josh asked, cautiously, eyeing the assortment of coins. 

"Keep it," Chris said, "I'll get it back after," and dragged Lance by the elbow over to a table. 

Lance leaned across the table, staring at Chris, smirking. "What is it, then?" he asked, conspiratorially. "The hush-hush?" 

"Fuck off," Chris said. 

"What?" Lance said, straightening. 

"Your boyfriend is an idiot, eh," Chris said. 

"The point?" 

"Jaimekindacaughtmecheating." 

"Eh?" Lance asked. 

"Jaime? You know? Pretty girl, about yea high, blue eyes, long wavy hair? Ring a bell? Hangs out with us sometimes?" 

"Fuck off, Kirkpatrick." 

"Yeah, well. She caught me." 

" _Cheating_?" 

"Yes," Chris said. "What's so damn hard about that concept?" 

"How the --" 

"I didn't ask for the fucking third degree," Chris said, and picked listlessly at his krueller. "'Cause, like. It was with J." 

"Justin?" Lance asked. 

" _Yes_ ," Chris said. "What's so hard about that concept?" 

"Um, dude. Like. Why would you cheat on Jaime? She's hot, man." 

"Like you'd know," Chris said. 

"Justin's prime jailbait, eh." 

"I _know_ , but --" 

"That's not healthy," Lance said, shook his head. 

"Look, it's not like I meant to do it or anything." 

"What, do whatever the hell it is that you did with Justin?" 

"No, cheat." 

"You could've broken up with her first, then, eh. Y'know. It's not that hard." 

"I, um." Chris pushed the krueller bag across the table, cocking a brow at Lance. "I thought it was going to just, like, _stop_. I didn't even really mean for it to get like this." 

"Like what?" Lance said, and took a bite of the donut. 

"Like it _is_ ," Chris said. "Like, like. Fuck." He pressed his fingers into his closed eyes, exhaled. "This is so fucked up." 

Lance shifted uncomfortably in the hard chair, licked krueller crumbs from his fingers. "Well, um. You like him, right?" 

"I. Shut up," Chris said. "'S none of your business." 

"Don't you think it's a little late to be considering what's my business and what's not?" Lance asked. He pushed the krueller back across the table and stole a glance over at Josh. "You wanted to know what to do. If you're not gonna _tell_ me, I can't help." 

"He's, like," Chris broke off a piece, licking the glaze from it, "my best friend." 

"Okay..." 

"I don't know." 

"Then you probably shouldn't've done anything, eh." Lance frowned. "Until you knew." 

"Too late for that now," Chris said. 

"Yeah," Lance said, and stood up. He went back over to the counter, exchanged a few words with Josh, smiled, wandered back to the table. Chris glared. "Twenty-three," Lance said. 

"Eh?" 

"Cents," Lance said, and stuffed the remains of the krueller in his mouth. "I, um." He swallowed. "More than Jaime?" 

Chris dug a quarter out of his pocket. "I. um. I don't know. Maybe. Probably." He paused, dropped it on the table. "Fuck." 

Lance frowned again, flicked at the coin. "Don't you think you should, like, tell her?" 

Chris exhaled loudly, overdramatically. "I don't want to hurt her. I mean, I. shit." 

"Chris, you already _have_." 

"It's just --" 

"She can't think any less of you than she does now if you just _tell_ her." 

"No, but," Chris said, and reached for the empty bag. "Hey. Ass. But, I mean. It's just Justin fucking around, anyway." He picked crumbs off the paper. "It's not like it _means_ anything to him. It's not like I should...I mean. I shouldn't _lose_ her over this." 

"Um," Lance said, glanced up from the quarter. "You might anyway, eh." 

"I. Yeah," Chris said. "I kinda realised that." 

"Maybe you should talk to Justin, then. Like. Y'know." 

"I, um. Don't really want to," Chris said. 

"But you probably should." 

"I know. It's just. Fuck. I don't even know any more." 

"You should," Lance insisted. 

"I. Fine." Chris stood up, nodded at Josh. "He's got your twenty-three cents, eh," he called, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. 

* * *

"So what was that about?" Josh asked. He was wiping residue from the inside of a white mug, the red lettering on the side already faded, when Lance returned. 

"Just Chris," Lance mumbled. 

"No kidding," Josh said, and picked up another mug from the basin. "What'd he want?" 

"Just. Thing." 

"Yeah?" Josh asked, leaning forward on the countertop. "I know you can finish a sentence." 

Lance glared. "Shouldn't I be telling you that?" 

"Hey, hey." Josh raised his hands apologetically, and slung the dish towel over his shoulder. "Fine." 

Lance rolled his eyes. "Don't tell anyone, but. um. He's kinda fucking around on Jaime. And. yeah." 

"Uh huh," Josh said, flatly. He pulled down the towel, picked up another mug. "Who the hell would I tell, eh?" 

Lance shrugged. 

"Anyone I know?" Josh asked absently. 

"Justin." 

Josh's head jerked up, eyes widening. He cocked his head to the side, wrinkled his brow. "Justin?" he asked. " _Justin_?" 

"Yeah." 

Josh smiled, broadly. "Oh, mon dieu," he murmured, and turned around, leaning on the back ledge of the counter. His shoulders were shaking in silent laughter. " _Justin_?" he repeated. 

"Yeah," Lance said, again. He could feel the smile creeping into his voice. 

"That's, that's." Josh paused, turning around again. His eyes were bright with mirth. "No, really, um. I mean. That's kinda, euh, cool and all. Just. Oh, oh, mec." 

Lance grinned. "Uh huh," he murmured, and touched Josh's wrist. "When's your shift over?" 

"Soon enough," Josh said, and pulled the towel off his shoulder to wipe another mug. 

* * *

It was kind of surreal, like hockey at four in the morning. Chris would play, then go to sleep at six, and when he woke up, his legs would hurt from the exertion, but he couldn't really remember if it was just a dream, or if he actually was cross-checking Justin across the back, just before the street lights went out. 

It usually turned out that he was, and it turned out it was a lot like this. 

So at first he wasn't really sure if it had played out at all the way he thought it had. Wasn't sure if, yeah, that had happened. But it seemed, the more he repeated it, to Joey, to Lance, it was more likely to be reality, and not just some fear nagging at the back of his mind, conjured by lust. 

He didn't feel as guilty about it as he imagined he should. He never really thought about his and Jaime's relationship as something that escalated, but more as something that just happened, because it was the natural progression. It didn't seem, to him, that they'd ever exchanged one plane of existence for another, just drifted through every stage of a normal relationship without ever stopping to acknowledge it. 

It was odd, then, for Jaime to be thinking and suggesting, "we're over," when neither of them had really, _really_ said, "let's start." 

Chris wondered if he was just making excuses because he fucked up. 

He didn't wonder long. 

* * *

"Your girlfriend called," his mom said, when Chris got home. 

"Uh huh," he said. 

"She wants you to call." 

"Sure," he mumbled, taking a package of Kraft Dinner out of the cupboard, and had no intention of calling. 

* * *

Jaime called three more times before his mom got pissed off enough that she said, "next time, _you_ answer the phone," even though Chris had already pointed out that he was "not home". She looked at him, hard, before he rolled his eyes and gave in. 

The fourth time the phone rang, he said, "What?" so loudly into the receiver that there was an audible pause before Justin said, 

"Whoa, calm down, man," a little breathlessly. 

"Oh," Chris said. 

"Yeah," Justin said. "Hi." 

"Um," said Chris. 

"Um," Justin echoed. "I, um. Think she's gonna, um. She's, uh. Really." 

Chris sat down heavily on the couch next to the phone. "Look, did you have something to say," he asked, flatly. 

"Just that," Justin said. 

"Fine," Chris replied. "Bye," and hung up the phone before Justin could say anything more. 

* * *

When Chris didn't show up, the next afternoon, it was pretty bad, Justin thought. 

"Okay, what?" he asked, after having endured too many lengthy stares from Josh and only the barest recognition from Joey. "What'd I do?" 

"Huh?" Joey asked, not looking up from the TV, where reruns of Degrassi High were playing. 

"What --" 

"It's nothing," Lance interrupted. 

"If this is about," Justin started, again. 

"It's not," Josh said. 

Justin's eyes narrowed as he flipped him off. "Dude, you don't even know what I was gonna say." 

"Oh," Josh said, and there was a hint of a smile on his lips. 

"It's not important," Lance said. 

"No, really," Justin said. 

"It's just the thing," Josh said. 

"I -- yeah." Lance nodded emphatically. "Because it's weird." 

"What?" Justin asked sharply. 

"The Chris thing," Joey said. 

"Oh," Justin said, finally, and settled further into the couch, crestfallen. 

* * *

They gave him until the puck-drop to show up, the next day. No one was too surprised when he didn't. 

* * *

The third period was just starting as Jaime swept into the room and perched on one of the armchairs, and said, "We're going to talk about this." 

"Mm," Justin said. He was sprawled bonelessly on the couch, with an empty glass in his hand; the sweating water filter was on the coffee table, and probably had been for the entire duration of the game. 

"No, really, Justin," she said. 

"It's the third period," he offered, without taking his eyes from the screen. "It can wait." 

"A fucking hockey game is _not_ more important than this." 

"Sure," Justin said noncommittally. 

"Justin," she said, and her voice was dangerously low, the way it was right before she threatened to kick his ass. She couldn't, and never did, but it was the idea of the thing. 

"Fine." He hit the mute button, and momentarily managed to look away from the screen. "What?" 

"Chris," she said. 

"Yes," Justin agreed. "Chris." 

"Look, J," Jaime said. "What the fuck were you thinking?" 

Justin scrunched up his face, and managed to gather enough coordination to put his glass on the coffee table. He swung his legs over the side of the couch, and watched the TV with a sideways look. "Um," he said, biting the inside of his mouth. "Um. Probably, like. The same thing you thought at some point." 

Jaime leaned forward, looking at him across the table. "Which is?" 

Justin felt himself flush. "Shut up. That he's fucking hot, okay. Fuck you." 

"That doesn't mean you can just --" 

"Fuck you," Justin repeated. 

"We were _some_ thing, eh? Right? Not just some puppy love bullshit like you and Brit, or that guy from your team, or that guy in your French class you were always talking about, or -- or any of that. It wasn't just, oh, he's hot --" 

"Did I say it was?" 

"For you, you asshole," Jaime said. 

"I didn't _say_ that." 

"You did, you said --" 

"You asked what I _thought_ \--" 

"Can I finish a sentence here? Please?" 

"Oh, fuck you," Justin said. There was nothing, he thought, that Jaime liked better than to hear herself talk when she thought she was right. "Maybe you hadn't noticed that I don't really _care_ , eh? I don't, I don't, I don't. Just have him. I don't care." 

"Justin." 

"I want to watch the hockey game," Justin said, quietly. "Just. Go the hell away." 

Jaime looked particularly affronted; it seemed she had been doing a lot of that lately. "Fine," she said, and left with considerably less boldness than with which she had come. 

Justin reached out to pour another glass of water, but he couldn't get his hands to respond adequately, and the water had gone warm, anyway. He watched the rest of the game on mute. 

* * *

Chris woke up to the sound of someone pounding relentlessly on the door. 

"Hey, you fuck," came Lance's voice after a good number of thumps had been inflicted on the door. "Get up and let me in." 

Chris groaned and rolled out of bed, thudding across the clothing-littered floor to swing open the door, unceremoniously. "It was open," he growled. 

"Oh," Lance said, as if he hadn't been expecting it. He pushed past Chris to the middle of the room, where he stood flailing his arms helplessly. He gestured at the hockey stick propped against one wall, and the discarded (and probably smelly, though Chris hadn't checked) equipment in one corner, and the unmade bed, and the general chaos surrounding him. "How the hell do you live like this?" 

"Dude," Chris said, rubbing at his eyes, "you are _so_ not my mom. What d'you want?" 

"You weren't at Joey's last night," Lance said flatly. 

"Eh?" 

"Neither was Justin." 

Chris blinked at him, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Eh?" he repeated. 

"That's really shitty of you, eh," Lance said. "Pissing off Justin so he won't even come for the game." 

"What'd _I_ do?" Chris thought it was really too early for this shit. 

"Shut up, man. Just. You should probably apologize to him or something." 

Chris tilted his head towards Lance a little. "Say what? Why?" 

"Because, because -- the little shit's all pissy." 

"Oh," Chris said, "I see. And that's my fault? He doesn't need you to defend his honour, eh." 

Lance cringed. "That's not even the point." 

"Dude, it's too early for this. If that's not it, I've completely missed the point." 

"The point," Lance said carefully, "is that you're gonna have to fix whatever the hell's wrong with him, so Joey doesn't get Jup's sister calling him all throughout the hockey game to see if you're there so she can bitch you out 'cause you aren't picking up your damn phone." 

Chris sunk into his bed again, and pulled the blankets up over his head. "Oh," he said, "because Jaime's pissed, it's somehow a problem with Justin." 

"No, man, just, like. You gotta decide which one you want, eh?" 

"Jaime," Chris said hollowly. "But that'd just piss off Justin even more, so, yeah." 

Lance made a small noise of disbelief. He said, "maybe you should get your priorities straight, man," and the bedroom door clicked shut. 

* * *

For Chris, getting his priorities straight meant thinking about things in advance. Not too much in advance, mind, because then that would have been actually organized, which Chris was not, not under any circumstances. But it meant things like writing "butter" and "milk" and "those pickles you like" and " _more_ KD" on the shopping list and then actually taking said list with him when he went to Loblaws, instead of constantly forgetting and not remembering until he'd already gotten home. 

For some reason, he thought maybe that wasn't what Lance had meant. 

* * *

"Fancy meeting you here," was what Chris had meant to say, but at the look on Josh's face, the words died in his mouth. 

Meeting Josh at the bank turned out not to be a fancy at all, because Josh could really be a bitch when he was angry -- and angry he apparently was. 

"Right," he said abruptly, brandishing his bank card at Chris, "I will cash this cheque and you will do whatever the hell it is that you need to do, and then you'll tell me just what the _fuck_ is wrong with you." Chris mentally kicked himself for ever having gotten an account at the Bank of Montreal. 

"Right," he said. 

Josh was, unfortunately, very quick at the machine, and Chris could only make a cash withdrawal last so long before Josh would notice that all he was doing was pressing "savings account" and then "cancel transaction", over and over again. 

"Okay, what?" he finally asked, having stuffed two twenties and his receipt ( _bal: $4.73_ , it said) into his wallet. "If this has anything to do with the time Lance passed out on my kitchen floor, I swear I didn't-" 

"It's Justin," Josh interrupted, and Chris rolled his eyes. 

"I already got the talk, eh." 

"Maybe," Josh said, "but you didn't _get_ it, did you?" 

"I am not talking about this in the foyer of a _bank_ , for fuck's sake." 

"Fine," said Josh, and dragged him outside. For a skinny little French-boy, Josh was actually fairly forceful. And rude. The sidewalk was not exactly an improvement, Chris thought, but Josh's next idea was likely to be in the middle of on-coming traffic, so he kept his mouth shut about it. 

"I think," Josh said, "that you probably owe him something." 

" _Owe_ him something?" Chris said. "Owe him _what_?" 

"An apology," Josh said simply. 

Chris stared at him. Josh impassively stared back. 

"For what?" Chris asked, finally. If Josh said something like-- 

"For pushing him away," Josh said-- Chris was going to punch him in his crooked French-boy nose. Chris clamped his jaw shut in restraint, but didn't bother uncurling his fists. 

"I would say," he started, very slowly and deliberately, "'what did I do?', but I'm so fucking sick of having this conversation on fucking loop that I'm not gonna. Fuck, man." 

"If you'd just," Josh started. 

"Fuck you," Chris said. "Just shut the fuck up. I'm fucking sick of you assholes acting like messengers from the fucking princess who's too much of a fucking _girl_ to even talk to me himself." He could feel blood rushing to his cheeks, but vaguely he thought he was only angry because he knew he was wrong. "I'm just, I'm not even your fucking friend, eh? Who the fuck are _you_ to lecture me?" 

"Chris." Josh's voice was small and resigned. 

"Oh, just, fuck you," Chris repeated. "Since you're so busy being the fucking negotiator, you can tell Justin that if he wants anything to do with me, he can do it himself." 

And he left Josh standing on the slushy sidewalk outside the bank. 

* * *

Lance was already home when Josh got there, as identified by the skates in the middle of the hallway and the more-than-healthy smell of room spray. Josh hated that smell, but Lance hated smoke, so they'd had to compromise on choking on one another's scents so they wouldn't kill each other. 

"Hi," Josh called, and left his jacket draped over Lance's superfluous umbrella stand. 

"Hey," Lance said. He was on the couch with his business textbook in his lap and a highlighter tucked behind one ear, looking up at the TV every so often. CP24 was on mute. 

"I just saw Chris," Josh said. He leaned against the doorframe. 

"Yeah?" Lance said, and plucked up his highlighter to highlight a section of his text. Only he could think he could study, watch TV and carry on a conversation at the same time. "Did you get any lettuce?" 

"No," Josh said. "Had you wanted me to?" When Lance didn't say anything, he continued, "So anyway, about Chris, he's a piece of work, you know? Tell me again why you like him." 

"Because," Lance said, then paused. He squinted at the TV. "Because," he said, with more finality. 

"Right," said Josh. 

"I mean, because Justin likes him, eh? And Justin's cool, so, right." Lance tucked away the highlighter again, and seemingly very diligently returned to his reading. He hadn't even turned the page yet; Josh wondered how long he'd been on this one. 

"So how was class, then?" Josh asked. 

Lance grunted. "And I was only wondering 'cause I kinda wanted salad, but I couldn't remember if I'd told you or not." 

"Uh," Josh said, "right. Look, Lance, you wanna turn your productive mind elsewhere?" 

"Just a minute," Lance said. 

Josh sighed. "I'll be in the bedroom when you figure it out," he said. 

* * *

Jaime had called again while Chris was out, his mom told him, and damn well better call her back or else. 

"Fine," he'd said, without thinking, but when he actually picked up the phone to dial the number, it seemed a lot harder than it should. Not so hard that he wouldn't do it, but just hard enough for his heart to start beating faster and his mouth to go dry out of nervousness and apprehension, because this was BIG. 

"Hello?" Just Chris' luck, too, that it would be Justin who'd pick up. 

"Yeah, hi," Chris said flatly, "can I talk to Jaime?" 

"Just a minute," Justin said. There was some scrambling and scuffling in the background, and some mutters and swearing, and a very pronounced, "it's _Chris_ , okay?" 

"Hi," Jaime said after a moment. 

"Hi," said Chris. "You called?" 

"Yeah," she said. There was a slight edge to her voice, the one he knew meant that she was either going to flirt with him or kick his ass, both of which were just fucking great, he thought. "Hey, look," she said, "I just wanted…I wanted to say I'm sorry, because Justin told me about everything, and I overreacted a little, right?" 

"Um," Chris said. "Yeah, sure." 

"So, sorry," she said, and her breath hitched a little. "And I was wondering if, um. If you wanted to go out sometime. To, I mean, dinner, or something, or I could get hockey-" 

"No," Chris said, before he even thought about it. 

There was an audible pause on the other end, and then Jaime said, very quietly, "N-no? You're- you're sure?" 

"Yeah," Chris said. "Not interested. Bye." And he hung up. And wondered just what the fuck Justin had told her. 

* * *

When Justin showed up at Joey's that evening, Joey opened the door and said, "Hey, hey, when the hell did the whole world go gay and forget to tell me?" 

"Sorry, what?" Justin asked. He pushed past Joey and dumped his skates with the rest in the front hallway, and stopped short. "Wait. Chris is here?" 

"Yeah," Joey said. "But you're not answering my question." 

Justin looked from the pile of skates to Joey and back again. "Why, who's gay?" he said. 

"Lance, man," Joey said. "I didn't know he was gay!" 

"I thought Josh was the give-away, eh." 

"But I didn't know about him, either!" 

Justin looked at him for a long moment, then muttered, "you are so straight," as he started downstairs. 

* * *

The rest of the night wasn't as bad as Justin thought it would be, with Chris. Even though Chris ended up drinking quite a bit and sat next to him on the couch and seemed to think that a five-second phone non-conversation made it okay to talk to him. It didn't, as far as Justin was concerned. 

But really, it would have been fine, if Chris hadn't cornered him in the upstairs hallway when he was leaving and said, "so she asked me out again, eh?" 

"Congratulations," Justin said. Chris was drunk, pissed, utterly plastered, so of course he'd tell him, even though he should have known that Justin wouldn't care and it would only make things worse. 

"No, no, man, I said no," Chris said. 

Right, Justin thought. "Right," he said. 

"No, no," Chris said again. His eyes were a little red and bleary, and Justin doubted he'd have even been talking to him had he been sober. How fucking predictable of Chris. "No, I did, because I know better, eh? Right?" 

"Right," Justin repeated, and had to leave right then, or he thought he might scream. He thought he heard Chris say, "I'm sorry," but he couldn't be sure. 

* * *

In the morning, Justin let the door slam shut behind him as he emerged from the side of the house, frost crunching underfoot on the driveway. Chris waited until Justin was halfway to where the beaten car sat before he said, 

"Justin." 

Justin's head snapped up, and he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "Hi," he said shortly. 

Chris hesitated a little, before closing the distance between himself and Justin. "Hey, um. I was --" 

"I'm kind of busy," Justin said. He dug a ring of keys out of his pocket, popped open the trunk of the car. 

"I was just going to," Chris started. 

"Later," Justin interrupted, and brushed past Chris for better access. 

"Can you just wait?" Chris said, seizing Justin's bicep through his jacket. Justin paused, leaning against the car. 

"No." Justin shrugged him off, and hauled his hockey bag out of the trunk. His cheeks were flushed against the cold, and his mouth was twisted around his words. "I don't really have time." 

"I just wanted to know if you --" 

"No," Justin repeated. He dropped his bag onto the asphalt, clicked shut the trunk. He turned, back to the car, and studied Chris' face. "I don't have time for this," he said, and bent to wrap his hand around the straps of the bag. 

"Give me a fucking chance, man," Chris said. 

"I think I did," Justin said, and slung his bag over one shoulder. 

"Look, I like you," Chris said. Justin looked at him sharply. 

"Yeah?" he asked, tilting his chin up. "We're friends. You're supposed to." 

Shit. "Shit." 

"You're such an asshole," Justin said, shifting away from Chris. Chris thought the flush along Justin's cheekbones was more from anger than the cold, now. 

"Dude, I'm --" 

"Don't --" 

"-- sorry --" 

"-- _touch_ me --" 

"-- I just --" 

"-- fucking _stop_ , Chris," Justin, loudly, and pushed him away. He slid out from between Chris and the car. 

Chris looked at him, eyes hard. "I could've gone with her." 

"I wouldn't've cared," Justin said, throwing the words over his shoulder as started back towards the house. 

"You would've," Chris said, on Justin's heels. 

"No," Justin said, voice cold and rough, and caught in his throat, "I wouldn't." 

"Jup," Chris said, and Justin hesitated, hand lingering on the door handle. "C'mon." 

"I can't, I need to," Justin started, but the words died in his mouth. Chris reached out and pulled Justin's hand from the door. He twined his hand against Justin's, and Justin's fingers were cold; his whole hand was cold. 

"I think you would've," Chris said, and kissed Justin. Justin's lips were cold, too, chapped by the wind, and that was something too foreign not to be familiar, something he really wanted. 

Justin's hockey bag slid down to hit the driveway, unnoticed. If Justin hadn't cared, Chris would have, and he knew it.


End file.
